The strange habits of Rastafarian donkeys

No, I have no idea where that title came from either...

A surreal moment in my kitchen when the mind falls into neutral (while waiting upon the cauliflower cheese in the oven, hungry for dinner) and out pops an image...

However, I can see why Scottish bards would lie down in a darkened room and wait upon a boundary consciousness between sleep and waking and through which they would invite composition.

Here lies suggestiveness - and if you have an accompanying discipline of expression - something of poetry may emerge.

Undoubtedly my imagination is wholly undisciplined and I get the surreal rather than the over real (if you can forgive that coinage)! Poetry as the more than ordinarily real.

I could in a Jungian manner (as befits my past analytic encounter) play with the image.

I think I can only cope with donkeys...

For which I have a wholly positive resonance not least my beloved Eeyore with whom, in the Pooh pantheon, I am self-identified.

I was instantly reminded of the story about Nasreddin (the holy fool of Sufism) being accused of smuggling. Each time he crossed the border with a faithful donkey, the custom official searched him and his load without finding anything suspect and yet 'knew' his guilt. After several years, the exasperated custom official demands to know from him what he is smuggling, wholly convinced that he is, to which the answer is, of course, donkeys!

Donkeys are thought of as stubborn, so am I!

Now as to Rastafari...

You can see how surreal trips develop...


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